


paper wings

by oversized_child (Hell_on_Wheels)



Series: strange descriptions (mostly for fun) [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Can people with DID have a psychopathic/sociopathic alter?, Death, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Edgy, Gen, Origami, Poetic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, references to trauma, the internet doesn't agree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 18:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17048756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hell_on_Wheels/pseuds/oversized_child
Summary: some memoriesnever leave your bones. likesalt in the sea; they becomepart of you.- and you carry them.





	1. orizuru

The silence is suffocating.

It sits, never leaving her side.

There's sound that constantly surrounds her, sounds that swirl around and around. She sits right in the middle, in the eye of the storm, the silence keeping her company.

People refuse to come close to the swirls and swirls of sound, pushing away like the whipping winds of a tornado.

Maybe it makes her sad.

Maybe it makes her sad that nobody approaches her when she's clad in silence, the silence threatening to crush those who came close.

She wasn't too sure.

She's been so alone for so long, so used to her silence, so used to the everything that leaves her alone, the people that leave her alone. The people that skirt around on the edges, wanting to get closer, but so very terrified of the whipping swirls of sounds that are forced away from her.

She smiles kindly at them, understanding their fear. She wouldn't want to escape either.

So she sits, the memories, thoughts, and silence swirling in a toxic mess.

* * *

Somebody comes, one day. Cassandra, Cameron, Carlos, Christine, Conrad, Kathleen, she doesn't remember. Names with a hard c.

They dare approach her, break the barriers that she's built. Did she build them? She doesn't know.

The silence was always there.

They smile kindly at her, and they get close. They laugh, and maybe she even laughs. 

She's not even sure if she smiled. Or laughed. 

But for the first time in her life, the silence didn't surround her. She shared her voice, her sound, with somebody else.

She doesn't remember if she laughed or smiled. She doesn't remember the person's name.

Names and voices, sounds, slip away from between her fingers like sand. Just like everybody else, the one person disappeared. They were gone, one night.

She doesn't remember anymore.

(But really, she knows the reason. She knows the horrible, horrible truth, that she hides beneath layers of silence.)

She comes out one rainy night.

_Not the length of life, but the depth of life._

Everybody's all dressed in black. She's wearing black. There are umbrellas, mostly black.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

Some people are crying.

_If Christa were to see us here today, she would've laughed at us and told us to cheer up._

Others are holding in their tears.

_She was a constant stream of light in many of our dark lives. She was the brightest girl I ever knew, and she was always willing to listen._

But all that really matters to her, the only thing that's running over and over, is that she's alone again in the silence.

_And she consistently had something meaningful to say in return._

The silence is suffocating.


	2. renzuru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The term renzuru (連鶴 "conjoined cranes") refers to an origami technique whereby one folds multiple cranes from a single sheet of paper (usually square), employing a number of strategic cuts to form a mosaic of semi-detached smaller squares from the original large square paper.

She folds a crane, slowly, her fingers working through the intricate details and folding carefully. She lightly cuts every now and again, this technique requiring slow and patient work. She's picked it up from somewhere, maybe on the streets, maybe from somebody she trusts. She doesn't remember who.

She only remembers how.

She stops cutting for a second and reflecting on how that was a pretty good allegory for her life.

_Not who, but rather, how._

She remembers exactly how the people who came close, who tried to penetrate her layers and layers of silence.

She remembers how they died.

She lightly cuts her finger, bleeding out a little, and she stared, watching the blood drip out of the small wound, slowly.  _Just like the first._

She takes the X-Acto knife and, cutting lightly, separated her large piece of paper.  _Just like the second, third, fourth, sixteenth. She doesn't remember._

She folds the pieces of paper, over and over, making delicate shapes and even more delicate forms.

She looks at the finished product, admiring the gentle beauty that it had. There were four, five cranes. Her room covered in cranes, her bed with cranes sitting upon it. Her strange little orange bottle, with small paper cranes in it. A paper crane on top, sitting there.

When had she placed it there? She wonders. And why is it coloured? She would never even think of colouring in her cranes.

There are cranes hanging from the ceiling, their necks in a tight lock. She didn't know when she put up that mobile, doesn't remember. Doesn't particularly care. Lots of times things happen and she doesn't remember.

And there are cranes on her desk, slashed with the X-Acto knife like a gruesome scene of crime, the little bits of paper strewn haphazardly. She wouldn't hurt her cranes, but she's not surprised. She's often seen her cranes like this.

She takes the ruined crane, and, sweeps it into the trash can. "Goodbye."

A name, written haphazardly. "Christa." She doesn't remember that either.

"Goodbye, Christa." The name feels strange in her mouth, yet familiar. As if she's called someone that before.

She doesn't remember.

There are piles and piles of letters, some addressed from a distantly familiar names. They sound like something she's said when she was younger. "Sally." She doesn't remember who it belongs to. Does she even know a Sally?

Of course she doesn't. She doesn't remember anybody.

_Darling?_

She takes another piece of paper, and, gently folds it again.

_Darling, come here. I'll braid your hair._

More and more folds, again and again.

_Your lunch is in your bag, honey._

She finishes the single crane.

And - for a brief moment, she remembers.

_A man. A woman. Tears. Screams. Bruises._

She considers the implications of the memory.

And she forgets.

* * *

She pulls on a jacket, finding small cranes in her jacket. She pulls them out, brushing them out. 

_When did I fold those?_

She shrugs, and, turns the knob.

She only remembers how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe we all have darkness inside of us and some of us are better at dealing with it than others.  
> —  Jasmine Warga


End file.
